Flowers Die
by HeroInTraining
Summary: A family has been asked to house a Corpse, a member of the undead, one who is secretly smarter than the rest. Now she must learn to blend in with the Living while dealing with the Dead. If this experiment fails, the world will suffer. How many people will die before a cure is found? How much will it take to bring back the Living from the Dead? Rated for violence/zombie feasting.
1. Prologue

**Flowers Die**

**Zombie Coming to Area**

A local family has been selected to house a supernatural creature.

The government continues to search for a cure healing the mysterious so-called "Corpses." Though they are not common in North America, they are popping up across the world.

Theories vary concerning cures, but this one suggests putting a Corpse into Living society. President Obama thinks an experiment, if successful, could lead to breakthroughs in the science and medical fields.

Later this month is the tentative date the family will give the Corpse a home. When the creature arrives, please, do not panic. Special arrangements have been made.

"We're the same people," says Andrew Batz, a member of the family housing the Corpse. "Please, don't be scared. It's all for the best."

Remain calm, remember special exceptions are in place, and refrain from shooting. This is for the good of the world.


	2. Andrew

**Chapter 1**

Oh, here's a new headline: **First City Falls to Zombies! **The picture is an overhead shot of the ghost town. A zombie sits in the corner. I skim the article, grimacing at the gruesome pictures. Ellen looks my way at a commercial. Later, I mouth, eyeing the back of Mae's head. She doesn't need to know zombies are the real deal. It's bad enough she's learning about the threats of nuclear war and recessions in school. We're all still mourning Zoe. I still can't believe she's gone. To not hear her laugh at everything. To come home from work and not see her writing on the deck; didn't matter if it was sunny or snowing. To go to her tennis games and archery practices no more. Everything.

Finally it hits nine so Mae can go to bed. Ellen goes up to read to her. I read the rest of the newspaper. Later she comes back down. "A Polish city got overrun by what the officials call zombies. Everyone is either eaten or converted."

"Great. Now they're in Poland. Pretty soon Corpses will start popping up here."

"Hopefully not. They have to be working on a cure."

"If they have any sense they are."

We go back to watching television. The show ends, we go to bed. Early the next morning the phone in our room rings. I hurry to answer it before it can wake up Mae. The agent we've been talking with introduces himself and says a meeting is scheduled for tonight. Mae is to be left at home. Any questions will have to wait. I relay the message to Ellen. We go on with our day. Us off to work, Mae to school. After I get home I take Mae to a friend's house and go to the local bar n' grill. Inside we are escorted to the empty bar. Only the attendant is there, but he leaves once our drinks rest in front of us. Of course this meeting is top secret. Ellen tentatively sips her drink, probably thinking back to when Zoe almost got us kicked out for making fun of the waitresses.

"Good afternoon, Mr. and Mrs. Batz," he greets us.

"Afternoon," I say. Ellen doesn't acknowledge him.

The agent begins. "Not much progress has been made since our last meeting, but what was is significant."

"Significant how?" Ellen asks.

"We're learning more about it. A trap was set near the New Jersey border. Field agents were sent in, but it moved with surprising agility and seemed to possess great strength. All were killed or infected. The infected were later neutralized."

"Why are you telling us this? What does this have to do with us?"

"Every piece of information is vital. Here is the footage." He hands me a tape. "Why it behaves this way is still under research, but now you know you will have an odd one on your hands. Have any other cases like this been reported? Exactly. Special care will be needed. Now, concerning your other daughter, a few extra steps need to be enacted. You said they shall share a room?"

"Yes," Ellen says. "It will take Zoe's old bed, right across from Mae's."

"Alright. That is fine, but Mae might require some protection. A thin electric chain emitting shocks only paralyzing to a Corpse is hidden in the carpet next to her bed. Detection means knockout frequencies. Same with yours. If all goes as planned that and other safeguards won't be nessicary. If not, you know the risks."

"Which makes me wonder why we agreed to this," Ellen mutters.

"What are we supposed to tell Mae?" I ask. "She thinks she's getting a sister."

"Essentially, she is. All I can say is protect her as much as you can, but secretly. We don't know how intelligent it is. Strength and agility aside, who knows what else marks this one as different. This is a new experience."

"You ain't kidding."

"One last thing before we part. I hate to say this, but I ask you to forget Zoe."

"What!" Ellen says, sputtering on her drink.

"You're asking us to forget everything about our dead daughter?" I clarify.

"No, no, not everything. Just details. Imagine if it somehow got to you. Would you really want it to understand Zoe?"

"No…"

"Exactly. Everything has already been discussed with your therapist. It will be beneficial in the long run. Well, if you have no further questions, this meeting is over."

He escorts us out. In the car Ellen stops my hand, en route for the radio. "We really need to talk."

"Yes. Without music, I take it." I move my hand to the ignition and back out. "I can't believe he wants us to forget Zoe. I see why, but why?"

"I'm not completely sure. How smart can it really be?"

"I don't know. The whole thing really pisses me off."

"Me too." Instead of driving directly home I take the scenic route, wasting gas but clearing my head. By the time we're done the emergency light is flashing. The local gas station is packed. _I wonder what's going on,_ I think as I stop several cars back from the pump. We pull closer; the radio in the operator's station is now audible.

"Stroudsburg, New Jersey, is now on the map across the nation. A small pack of Corpses was spotted just outside the town's borders. We are urging the public to stay calm. So far they have remained away from the population. Authorities assure us a plan is in the making. For those who live in the area, please stay indoors and keep doors locked. More to come later."

I pull up to the pump and go to fill up the tank. Though the news report explains a little bit, it doesn't explain why people in the middle of Pennsylvania are panicking. Must be all the other treats combined making people so jumpy. It's like the start of the economic crash all over again. I shake the last drops of gas from the nozzle and put it back, swiping a credit card. Then we pick up Mae. Ellen strikes up a conversation with the mother, talking about therapy and a new disease that might be the reason why Corpses keep popping up. Mae brings up popular topics of worry at school. Finally I drag them away so we can watch the tape. Dinner made, homework done, tape in the VCR. Instead of eating at the table we eat in the basement in front of the TV. It skips right to the action.

Soldiers prepare to unload from a helicopter. Guns are cleaned, bullets stocked. Kevlar is strapped on. The helicopter hovers above the ground. The Marines jump out and get in position several yards out. One of them fires a bullet. It connects and blows off an arm. The Corpses turn around and go the other way. When they get closer they lunge. An arm disappears, then a neck. One of the Corpses wears a tattered black leather skirt, scuffed silver shoes, and a filthy blood-spotted blue shirt. Short brown hair covers its face. The jewelry it wears is way too personality showing to go with what must be funeral clothing. Wait. Funeral clothes? I glance at Ellen for confirmation, but her eyes are glued to the screen, watching the camera zoom in on the terrifying, beautiful face snapping at the Marine's throat. Even the movements are familiar. So straight-forward and direct. The look on its face as it sinks its teeth into the man's shoulder doesn't match those of its comrades. Regret, repulsion, none of the other's ferocity. More of an "I have to do this" expression hidden behind the fierceness. All of this, it's so familiar…

Panning out to capture everyone, we can now see dead Marines getting eaten by blood-covered Corpses. Only a couple fall from bullets to the head. The cameraman tries to shoot an advancing Corpse. In the background the infected spaz and shout on the ground. The Corpse staggers forward again and the screen goes black.

We stare at the blue screen in shock. Only Mae is able to say what we're all thinking. "That was Zoe."

Ellen hugs her. "That's why we have to forget Zoe. Because she's changed into something unheard of. A Corpse."

"I know Corpses rise from the dead, but Zoe was so sick and wasted. We saw her dead body. How'd she rise?"

"I don't know, sweetie. I don't know."

The tape finishes rewinding. I take it out and hide it in a place no one will find it: a stack of Zoe's favorite books and DVDs. Then we go through what we do every night before bed. The next couple of days inch past. We're dreading the next therapy session. Saturday finally comes and we enter the small office building. I enter my assigned room.

"How are you, Andrew?" she greets me.

"Okay, I guess," I say. "I take it you've heard about the mind wipe?"

"Yes. We're going to do that later. First off, how do you feel about all this?"

"Confused. Zoe's been dead for a month now. She never was my favorite, but she could make me smile every once in a while. That made her tolerable. I'm still not seeing the big picture."

"We already had that discussion, so I'm skipping those comments. Now, about the big picture. Despite all the precautions, you and your family might not be completely safe. Zombies are still new to us. Barely any research is out there. Their intelligence could be anywhere from zero to a hundred. If it were to somehow find a way around the safeguards, therefore most likely consuming someone, imagine what it could do with those details. A teenage girl only popular for her death at school. Not many friends, and those she had starting to ignore her. Average grades, not much into sports. However, she's a rising tennis star and surprisingly good at archery. Fond of locking herself outside for peace and quiet. Possessing so many story ideas she never truly finished anything. A love of psychology. Deep hatred of the world, including her father, all backed up with solid evidence. Dead for a month. The perfect candidate for, say, impersonation."

I shake my head at impersonation. Nobody can impersonate Zoe. She's too different. "I saw her. On a tape. We're not forgetting for the Corpse. The Corpse we're forgetting. Our Corpse is Zoe."

She nods in understanding. Don't tell me she knew about this! As if reading my mind, she says, "The government was planning this experiment for months, ever since our allies with higher death rates reported the Walking Dead coming to life. The president-"

"I don't care about any of that! Tell me how I should deal with all this."

"You won't have to. As I said, the 'mind wipe' will happen later."

"Fine. How about what I'll remember? Not remember?"

"They gave me a list of guidelines. Anything having to do with her recent appearance-what she wore to her funeral, for example. No more will you recall her in a hospital gown, sickly and frail. Unique physical attributes-your mind will summon her face with full lips, red cheeks, and glinting brown eyes. Her scars. Qualities-she never locked the doors or climbed to the roof to think and write. She let loose with everybody, not just her close friends. Self-confidence levels-the person unable to say anything good about herself is gone. Zoe brimmed with confidence, sharing it with everybody. Preferences-you will remember what she liked best, but not why. Avatar and Deadpool remain her favorite movies, Final Crisis, Warm Bodies, and I Am Number Four her favorite books. She adored the Arkham games, Injustice: Gods Among Us, RPG brawlers and shooters, and real-life simulations. Heavy rock/metal her go-to music, pencil over keyboard. You must not know things as trivial as why her 'favoritest bands ever' are the Wanted and Linkin Park. Or," she glances down at her paper for a second, "her extreme intolerance of One Direction."

"Okay then. Everything but why. Got it." I shift on the coach. "Let's do it."

"You're so eager to forget your daughter."

"Memories aren't bringing her back anytime soon." She tells me to close my eyes and relax. She connects some wires to my head. My mind wanders, and it drifts to its far edges. The machine is working.

I wake up and blink. The lights just got brighter. I sit up and look around.

"Did it work?"

Think back to any memory with Zoe. When we went to Hershey a few months ago for the optomologist. "Burn It Down" came on the radio in the waiting room. Zoe sang along, not caring that she couldn't sing to save her life. Someone asked her about it, and she explained Linkin Park was one of her favorites and why she loved them so much. That part of the conversation isn't there anymore. Just gone. "It worked."

"Great." She asks me a few questions to make sure. At the end she jots down some notes and lets me leave.

Instead of waiting in the lobby or outside, I wander the hallways. Ellen has to be here somewhere. I few aides stare at me. Though I was hoping for Ellen, I find Mae. She's sitting on the floor with the psychiatrist playing with toys. Ever since Zoe died Mae lacked a usual playmate. I can't even remember the last time she made her Barbie's superheroes. At least she can now. Before I never knew the point of making toys have lives. It makes for good movies and not much else. Worthless.

Later I find Ellen, her face buried in her hands, crying. Zoe always did like her better. Go to her with problems. Meltdowns in her presence. Blocked me from entering her hospital room on her last day alive. Did everything in her power to let the world know she needed help. But since no one would listen she was forced to do it through characters. No one gave them the time of day. Those that did criticized them, including me. I said she needed to do something worthwhile. Thought she wasn't good enough to follow her dreams of becoming a writer. Would never become her generation's J. K. Rowling. Told her to pursue tennis, something proper, something you can get a scholarship for. Archery wasn't fitting and brought her that much closer to the world of heroes. I hated it. And now I'm paying the price. Unable to remember why. Damn the experiment. Maybe I should just kill it. Because it's not my daughter anymore.

At last Ellen and Mae come find me. They need time alone. We go home and carry on like any other day. Despite the cold I take Mae out to kick some soccer.

Days pass like this, then weeks. I almost forget about us adopting a Corpse. Everything about it is a blur. I lock up the tape in a place no one goes. We're almost back to normal when the phone rings. "Hello?"

"Andrew," our agent says. "It's time. We have the Corpse."


	3. Rose

**Chapter 2**

I don't remember how I died or how I came back. My only hint is my incredibly thin body, where everything hardly has any fat, everything except my chest and hips. These clues indicate anorexia or a wasting disease. Either way, it must have been dreadful to live through, since the back of my neck is crisscrossed with scars and the hair is cut short, exposing a small indentation, possibly from surgery. My arms swim in the shirt, my hips hardly keep up the skirt. Miniscule scars dot my shoulders. A detailed flower design covers my left shoulder, outlined in black with pale yellow accents. It covers the entire side, folding in at some places, the seam barely covering the edge of the zipper. The leather shrunk, showing off my hips, nothing but bone. Dirt splatters my feet and ankles. A blue bracelet with beads and a detailed flip-flop charm sags over the bump. A black rubber bracelet showing a sparkly red heart and white blobs covers my wrist. Dog tags dangle from my neck. One depicts a black symbol, and the other sparkles at every movement. Tiny black smears cut diagonally. I almost feel pity for my old self, until I remember something brought me back. Some part of me decided it wasn't finished with Earth. For all I know I could be the only member of my kind or one of hundreds. Maybe even thousands. The cemetery I am stumbling away from could be the site of an uprising of the dead. Faint shimmers of apocalypse movies and games form in my mind, distant theories of the end of the world. The kind of thing everyone thought made great entertainment, not a clue it just might be real.

My foot sinks into the marshy ground next to a tombstone, mud seeping over the edge of my shoe. That must be why it was so easy to claw myself out of my coffin and through the soil. Keeping my eyes open for the duration proved difficult. But now, struggling to remove my foot, a thought having nothing to do with killing strikes me. _What now? You got out, so now what do you do? Infect anybody you come across until the whole world is converted? Commit the undead's version of suicide? _Whatever scraps of humanity survived the conversion demand my redeath, that this is something that should be left in Hell until the end of time. Most of me wants anarchy. I hope the humanity stays; without it I truly would be one of the zombies of old. Even if that means an eternity of boredom, with nothing but my subconscious to keep me company, at least other people will not know of my existence. The human race is better off.

I finally wrench my foot free, almost losing it in the process. Mud drips off the shoe, revealing the mostly bright silver. Whoever my family was must not have been able to afford much, if this was the fanciest I owned. Or even in death I requested to wear what I wanted to. Silver flats add no extra height to my already tall frame. A black leather mini skirt is beginning to fray. And a midnight blue off-the-shoulder top exposes more of my sickly gray flesh. Tiny scars cover my arms, mostly hidden in the baggy elbow-length sleeves. In any crowd I would stand out like a fish in the desert. My best bet would be moving to an isolated area and going from there. I stumble along, sticking to the tree line among beaten roads, hoping humans stay away. Remaining without the urge to eat people must be my top priority. I travel past well-kept gardens, scraggy lawns, and wild forests. How long I walk, I have no idea, but eventually the solid ground gives way to sinking wetlands. A sign with blurred white blobs passes, letters forming words my murky dead brain cannot process. The air smells slightly saltier. Somewhere near the coast, I decide, probably housing meal options. Should the need ever arise no one will notice a few…disappearances.

Just those simple thoughts evoke a new kind of hunger growing in the pit of my stomach. _Great._ Humanity leaves and the singular purpose typical of monsters takes over, leaving me with nothing but the need to eat. Fighting does no good. Flesh. Must have flesh. Follow smell… Roads bad… There! Run towards man, too fast to see. Attack. Mouth to skin. Eat, no bones left. Hunger slowly fades. He certainly did not satisfy completely, but for the time being it is fine. I stare down at his mangled face, dripping blood onto his t-shirt. Maybe he was going out for a jog or fetching the mail. Whatever the reason, this man had a life up until a few seconds ago, happiness and fear and joy and anger and sorrow. A wife, children. A family. And I ended it all, unless I do the one thing in my power to make sure he stays dead. I do not know what will come of it, but memories with questionable validity suggest the movies might have been true. All is based on him rising again and the bite causing the transformation. _Oh, I am going to hate this…_

I sit on the man's chest and hook my legs through his arms, keeping them in place if the thrashing starts. I feel his ribcage struggle to move to accommodate his expanding lungs, inhibited by my added weight. His eyes stare at the heavens, meeting my gaze, not registering my exposed fangs. Faint moans escape his wide open lips. My brain shuts down, losing the humanity that curls back in disgust at the thought of hurting him further. Slowly I rip away the thin layer of skin protecting his cranium, revealing stark white bone. The last droplets of blood trickle out. Ignoring the thin cracks in my nails, splitting the electric blue and green nail polish, I dig my fingers into the bone and pull it apart. Hairline cracks appear, then the pink of his brain. _Gross! _Taking it was the easy part. Slowly, forcefully, I bite into the organ. For a few minutes after I ingest it, I feel…alive. Alive! I actually feel alive! Energy coursing through my useless arteries, veins, into my beating heart. Beating! My heart is beating! It pumps fluids through my body, restoring pigment to my skin, color to my eyes, and shine to my hair. Instead of sickly gray my skin is now a pale white. I run to the nearest reflective surface, a window, and stare at the face that must be mine. Questioning brown eyes, pink cheeks. Rosy lips, fewer visible veins. Freckles. Eyelashes. Life.

Alas, all good things must come to an end. Luster leaves, color fades away. My eyes, cold whiteish eyes, stand prominent in sunken eye sockets. The realization makes me want to cry. Of course, my eyes are again incapable of producing wet tears. For the first time in days I felt like one of the Living, brought on by the dying brain, and all I am left with is a fleeting memory. Another conundrum to haunt me until the end of eternity.

I force myself to focus on the scene inside. A little boy no older than six holds up box after box, waiting for his mother's approval. She shakes her head at each. According to the theme it must be a sci-fi/apocalypse day, movies whose names sound vaguely familiar. At last the mother agrees on one and disappears into the kitchen. The boy prepares the movie, hitting play when his mother reenters, and then snuggling next to her on a green coach with a bowl of popcorn. During the FBI warning screens I find myself sneaking in, hiding behind an overstuffed chair. Thankfully I have no need to breathe. No part of me says this is an intrusion of privacy. I focus on the movie, watching a group of main characters be introduced, then the main title flash across the screen, which from the panic attack prone one seems to be 2012. Natural disaster after natural disaster, all leading to the end of the world. I find myself enjoying it, even laughing a time or two, forgetting the other people in the room. The mother turns her head. Her son finds me.

Hunger returns in an instant. Go for woman. Leave boy open. Fight for control. Go for organs. Brain later. Now boy. Ignore knife. Ignore slash on face. Head this time. Flesh gone, now brain. Enjoy feeling.

That sensation again… Only experienced for a few minutes… I go back to the mother, removing her brain, and then move to explore the house. Flowers are everywhere: windowsills, tables, countertops, televisions. A garden grows out back. No area is without sweet smelling plants, though the scents are fading fast. Before they leave completely, I ingest the last brain. There is a window above the sink; I stick my face to the mesh keeping bugs out. Freshly cut grass, flowers, overturned earth, wet plastic from the swing set. Birds calling, fish swimming up river, distant dogs barking. Barbeque, roasting marshmallows, melting chocolate. Colors and textures and scents and tastes. Everything that makes this world alive. Makes thicker, harder to cross barriers between the Living and the Dead. Creating a rainbow across my pupils, a rainbow covering every color in the spectrum. I may not know if Living humans can comprehend this, but for a brief moment, I believe anything. This beautiful scene cannot be beaten by any memory I gain during this trip. Nothing can ruin it, not even the warm liquid dripping down my face. Tiny droplets of red splatter of the stainless steel sink. They pool out, reflective of the sunlight. I raise my hand to my face, feeling the gash from the knife, and… _Oh my!_ I'm actually bleeding! The blood is actually mine! A bright crimson, so different from the dead liquid inside me! This is…this is amazing!

Gradually the drip stops. Red blood cells hurry to close the wound before the last effects of the brain wear away. Now I have red blood cells! Then that means white blood cells are bust at work, trying their hardest to stave off the infection rendering me a zombie. What that means, I have no idea. Before I can ponder what any of this is truly saying, I head back to the living room to finish the movie. I do not know why, but both the movie playing and the stack of DVDs waiting patiently are calling me. Slowly it draws to a close, closure given and names floating across the screen. I take a moment to discover the square on the remote means stop. The pile holds many choices; I select one with half a pale blue face, a gold cat-like eye staring out, against a darker background.

It opens with an overview of trees flying past, a man narrating a dream. I find myself riveted to the screen, hanging on every word. When he first goes out in his avatar faint traces of Living provide a sense of his excitement. I enjoy it while it lasts. Meanwhile I watch Jake fall in love with Neytiri and the Omiticaya, learning to be one of them. Hometree topples, my dry eyes sting. The betrayal, death of Grace, death of Trudy, final showdown between Jake and Colonel Quaritch, all takes its toll. Oh, how I wish I could fully appreciate the obvious yet fulfilled attempt at deep, complex emotion. I wish with all my heart.

I replace the DVD with one about aliens. My complete attention is not held, so as soon as it's finished, I skip the rest of the trilogy to one with a depiction of the undead. This should be interesting.

The zombie, sci-fi, and superhuman movies stick the most, and I rummage through the rest of the house for more. For how long I perch on the couch not a clue remains. Night falls, then daybreak, then night again. My piles grow smaller and smaller, and the house holds no more to replace them. Now I watch a tale about a young man dealing with the harshness of space on the USS Enterprise. It is beautifully crafted, keeping my eyes glued to the screen until I hear something strange. A noise made by a Living creature. I pause the movie to investigate, my nose leading me to the foyer. The door is ajar; I open it to reveal nothing is in the yard. Back inside I check out a closet, still nothing, and then check the kitchen. There, with his head poked in a vase, is a young man. His posture suggests he is about 20. Black hair is cut close to his head, coming to a careful point on his forehead. The rest of his features are shrouded by petals, his head moving slightly as I enter the room. My stomach does not growl, nor does my brain shut down. Though it could be my muscles still draw energy from the family, my first thought is he is like me. I am fairly certain that assumption is correct. He probably heard me enter the foyer, but it takes a grunt for him to withdraw his head.

His dead, colorless eyes dart over my body, absorbing everything he can in a few seconds. Skin as gray as mine, absolutely nothing marking him as Living. I may be basing all this off of what I know about myself, but still. The information must be somewhat accurate. Dark clothes are fitting for his appearance. His face struggles to switch from content to bemusement in a few seconds. Might he be attempting to act like a human? If so, why? I am obviously not your average human, far from it, and he is the same. There is nothing to hide. Unless…might he be some dumb mutt? Could I be the only intelligent member of my species? The only one capable of thought, of reasoning, of decisions? So many questions, and the one answered satisfies part of my curiosity. I am not alone. The infection has spread.

He grins, actually grins, revealing blood stained teeth. I never knew we were capable of facial expressions. "Hi. How's it going?"

Talking? Is that what he is doing? Sweet, complex sounds instead of screams and moans, words instead of cries of pain. Directed at me… Something tells me I should respond, and I try to force my vocal cords to produce something other than growling. They refuse to move, staying locked in place, like everything in my throat grinded to a halt. Air is forced through my diaphragm, but it takes several tries to succeed. I wonder if I still know how. "He…he…hello," I finally get out. My voice is weak and feeble from misuse. How would it sound otherwise? Deep, I imagine, surprisingly deep for a female, perhaps with faint feminine traces.

The young adult cocks his head to the side, as if I am a pet he is interested in adopting. "You're awfully pretty for a Corpse. Recently risen. Awfully pretty."

"You t-too." His gothic attire only complements his frame, hair his face. But how can I be considered pretty? I am dead, dressed in decaying clothing, trapped in a rotting body. Decent could not even describe me.

"Can you tell me your name?" he asks. "Do you remember?"

I wrack my brain for something, anything. The only thing I come up with is the need to withdraw from him. Do not trust anyone, even if they pretend to care. "No."

"Well, how about…" He glances around the room, plucking a flower from a vase. "Rose." After placing it in my hair, he continues, "I like you. You seem to be intelligent. That's more than the rest of my group. At least, I'm guessing. Since you figured out how to talk. At the very least you're a pretty face."

Again I am unsure how to respond. I let him lead me to the kitchen sink; his touch is much cooler than I expected. His hand is smooth, his grip firm. How is he able to speak so quickly without trying? How can he express emotions? How can he travel in a pack and not be reduced to wild animals? How does he think I am easy on the eyes? How can he select a name for me right off the bat, without knowing anything about me? How am I willingly going along with it?

Turning the faucet, he cleans the blood off my face. He grabs my hands and holds them under the thick stream of water, letting the blood and dirt wash away, rubbing them a bit too long. I stare at the lines etched in my palm. They are so thin and delicate, so wrong on the hands stained with blood. Though the red is gone I will forever remember the sticky feeling. At his demand I reveal my teeth, allowing him to gently scrub them clean with a toothbrush he retrieved from the bathroom. Something tells me I should not be so trusting with someone I just met, someone whose name I do not know. Yet I allow the curiosity and enjoyment of discovering another member of the undead. Besides, I am not entirely defenseless. My hardened body and newfound experience killing humans will most likely trump him. I open my mouth above the drain, the water spilling out. It is nice not feeling blood running down my face. The used toothbrush is set on the counter.

He takes a step back to admire his handiwork. "I was right. You are pretty. More than pretty. Beautiful. Way to go, me."

As I am lead to a staircase, I ask, "What i-is your n-nam-me?" I stare at the steps, wondering how I will climb them.

"Green Day called me Blaze. Long story."

Green Day. That sounds vaguely familiar. Another glimpse from my past life? A movie, book, band, anything I found worthy of my time? I let him grab my arm to guide me upstairs. One step at a time, I slowly scale it, relearning the ability to lift my feet more than a few inches off the ground. Even as simple a task as climbing stairs proves I need much practice. Eventually I reach the top. I pause outside the boy's room, wishing to enter, but Blaze leads me to the bathroom. He stands me in the doorway and finds a brush. He runs it through my hair, taming the strands sticking up in all directions. My hair, a dark brown with streaks of lighter brown throughout, refuses to stay completely in place. In the back it is cut short, almost to the roots. The scars are more prominent and I finger the indentation. Along the sides it is longer, past my ears, resembling a pixie cut. Long bow and arrow shaped earrings poke out, almost yanked out by his forceful brushing. Next he turns me so I face the mirror.

"What do you think? Am I right? Or am I right?"

"Su-subj-jec-ctive." Speaking should not be this hard. The action itself is not difficult. Sounds just refuse to come out, words in pieces. Compared to Blaze I must sound like a drunken monkey. I reach out to touch the mirror. The girl staring back at me does the same. It is hard to believe she is really me, that something so…normal could result from whatever caused this outbreak from Hell. Now I understand how he made it through town without drawing unwanted attention. Perhaps one day I too will traverse the streets with ease, given I learn how to control the hunger. Posing as a member of the Living sounds much better than being confined to the shadows. Maybe even starting a family. Wait. What am I thinking? Interactions with the Living need to be kept to a minimum, including getting to know someone well enough to marry him. Anything resembling that is out of the question.

At long last I am lead out of the house and up the street, into a field of cattails growing out of a marsh. Deep inside waits a small group, only four people. Three look our way mildly curious, while the other's eyes suggest she wants a full-scale interview. From the moment our eyes meet I am instantly repulsed. I am not sure why. The others I am willing to give a chance, but her… For a member of the Dead she seems awfully inquisitive and… Dare I say it? Intimidating.

Her long blonde hair falls to her waist in waves, streaks of warm brown covering her head. She is wearing some sort of stage costume. Dark skinny jeans splattered with sparkles, a flower printed bikini top, and a black denim jacket with a sparkly gold collar, nose and belly button piercings completing it. Perhaps once a performer. Her gray skin is a little less so compared to the rest of us. Her eyes express some basic emotion. She is by far the most human of the Dead here.

"So," Blaze begins, "this is Slick, and Castle, and Green Day, and Boomerang. Guys, this is Rose."

I give a sheepish wave and my best attempt of a grin. Those who appear dumb take it as a sign of friendship. Slick receives it as a threat. She stands up and crouches. I retreat a step, unprepared for her hostility, but quickly recover. I bare my now clean teeth, hoping to frighten her off. Blaze brought me here for a reason, and I am not about to let some castaway from Hell threaten that. No emotions mean no flaring tempers, but figuratively the intensity radiating from us is blistering. I can almost imagine steam pouring out of Slick's ears. Mine too, judging the hatred on her face. We inch forward. Slick moves first. Her fangs glint in the sunlight. I knock her head aside. Again instinct overpowers rational thought and I grab her throat. My fingers squeeze tighter. I might even break her neck. My head lowers so my mouth is level with my hand. I reveal pointed fangs. Before any damage can be done, hands pry my fingers away from her body. Someone locks my arms in place behind me. Glancing around, Green Day smiles almost apologetically.

Anger fills Slick's features like pouring water from a glass, yet she does not object Blaze's restraints. His arm blocks Slick from approaching. "Rose is a friend," he scolds her. "She's smart. Be nice."

She just flicks her head indignantly. That woman, so eager for a fight, unable to stand the sight of me… Whatever Blaze plans to accomplish by bringing me here threatens their way of life. Nothing good can come of this. Nothing good at all. We are ushered deeper into the marsh, me kept in Green Day's arms. He loosens his grip. He might even be growing fond of me, since I am of him. A keeper for sure. It feels like we are walking in circles, doing nothing, following our now-apparent leader. At high tide we find a viewing point for the rise of the moon. White rays filter through the last layers of colorful sunlight. Castle attempts to narrate a scary story, resulting in our laughter. Spookiness holds no merit when you are a part of them. Who knows where they were taught these tales, who would bother to tell such pitiful creatures. Honestly, no one cares. This motley group bonding over stories can only be a sign of future loyalty.


End file.
